


Set It Off, Because You Know You Want To

by royallieu



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, court life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2018-08-16 20:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8115601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royallieu/pseuds/royallieu
Summary: She’s convinced that Jon won’t fight for her, so she decides to fight for herself. He sets out to prove her wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

Sansa finds him in his solar with Maester Tarly, their voices low and quiet. When she catches sight of Jon, sitting behind father’s old desk, there is a small smile on his lips and mirth dancing in his eyes, and she is surprised to find that it makes her heart soar. Too often he looks so hard and worried in her presence that she has taken to avoiding him whenever she can; her actions seem to work in both of their favors, for it gives Jon the opportunity to spend more time with his old friend. The maester is one of the few people who can make the King smile nowadays, what with Arya gone. Sansa is pleased that at least one person can still make him a little happy, and perhaps there will be others in the future that can do so as well.

_You once thought that you could make him happy. How did it fall apart so quickly?_

The door is open but she does not knock; instead, Sansa decides to present herself boldly by stepping into his solar unannounced, her gown making a light sweep against the floor when she enters. As soon as his eyes land on her Jon is on his feet immediately, but the smile on his face disappears, while his carefree expression is replaced with what Sansa could only describe as wariness. Maester Tarly follows suit, though his burdensome robes and heavy chain slow his ascent.

The sudden changes she witnesses on Jon’s face nearly weakens her resolve. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important. I can come back later, if need be.”

Maester Tarly shakes his head. “Jon and I were just finishing up some matters of minor importance, my lady,” he says. Though she nods in response, Sansa’s eyes are on Jon. He tries to be discreet when he rolls up certain letters that had been lying on his desk, but she still catches him anyway.

It vanishes as fast as it appears, but Sansa knows what she sees on one of the missives that Jon curls away. It is the sigil of House Martell.

“Might I have a word with you in private, Jon?”

She forgoes the honorifics for old time sake, but on second thought she decides that she much rather she hadn’t. Calling him by his first name these days seems too much of a farce, and only serves to remind her how badly things have gotten. There is no longer such a thing as Jon and Sansa, only the King in the North and the Lady Regent of Winterfell. They are all titles and personas to one another now, their masks and armor firmly in place. By all means this should have made her task all the more easier, but for some reason it doesn’t.

Sansa thinks she sees resentment flash across his face after she voices her request, but it’s gone too fast before she can speculate any further. “If that’s what you want,” he says with a curt nod. “Sam, would you excuse us?”

Maester Tarly nods and gives her a nervous smile before he leaves Jon’s solar, and she returns it with a smile of her own. It will be sad to be apart from him, she realizes, glancing over her shoulder to watch his backside as he descends the stairs. Sansa may not be as close to him as Jon is, but she is fond of him and his company. Maester Tarly is as helpful as he is kind, and it makes her sad to think that if things change in the future— _when_ things change in the future, she reminds herself, because she has more or less convinced herself that a fallout is inevitable at this point—she will miss him as much as she will miss his guidance. When the time comes, Sansa is sure that he will follow Jon, his King and friend, wherever he may decide to go; when this happens, Winterfell will find itself in need of a new maester. She knows that Rickon will be just as devastated.

Sansa goes to sit in the chair Maester Tarly occupied earlier while Jon lowers himself back on his own. Neither of them speak immediately. Odd, she muses, tracing the geometric patterns on her gown with a finger. Sansa thinks it odd that though they are only separated by his desk, she feels so far away from him that he mine as well be on one end of the continent while she stands at the other.

“What is it that you want to talk about?” He asks, breaking the silence. There’s a goblet in his left hand, and he taps the base of it against the chair’s wooden armrest at irregular intervals. To Sansa it sounds condemning, a heavy drumming meant to urge her forward, to force her to get on with what she wants to say. Initially she had hoped to start with some small talk, if only because it would have given her time to adjust to the heaviness that hung in the air. But if he wants to be elsewhere, Sansa doesn’t want to impede on that. She thinks she understands.

“I’ve decided to go south, to King’s Landing.”

Jon stops tapping his goblet against the armrest, his face still. “You’re what? Why?”

“Your aunt has invited me to join her for the remainder of the summer,” she answers, her fingers itching to reach out and push aside a lock of black hair that has come out of the knot that he ties at back of his head. He looks so much like father when he has his hair pulled back, and it’s a painful reminder of the people she’s lost, not to mention the person she is losing or has likely already lost. Sansa has accepted the fact that she is in love with Jon, but she has also come to terms with the fact that her love is useless.

“You once told me that you would never go south again,” he reminds her. His grey eyes are unreadable.

_That was before I realized you couldn’t stand me anymore._

It’s true, she thinks, staring into the flames that crackle in the fireplace behind Jon. She once made a vow that she would never step foot in the south again, no matter what the costs. But such a vow had been made when she thought that there was a sure chance that she and Jon could be happy together, that he would one day fight for her, _with_ her, and she wouldn’t need to ask him to. Sansa had hoped that she would stop being the burden he always saw her as.

She does not want to be his duty anymore.

“The circumstances have changed now. Besides, your aunt has requested my presence many times. I think it’s time that I honor it, after all the help she has provided for Winterfell.”

“That was the Hand’s doing, not hers,” he counters, and she notices that there is an edge in his voice. “He’ll be there as well, in King’s Landing.”

“You need not worry, because I will be fine.”

Sansa waits, clasping her hands tightly together upon her lap. Of course he wasn’t going to come with her, but there is a large part of her that wishes he would ask whether he can. Even if Jon was not going to do that, Sansa hopes that at the least he will protest, if only a little. Just a hint of some sort that tells her that he doesn’t want her to leave, something out of him that tells her he still wants her.

But Jon only remains where he is, his face as stoic as ever, his mouth firmly set shut. The walls between them have gotten as high as ever now, and she knows that there is no point in hoping anymore.

“I’ve already discussed most of the arrangements with my steward. I plan on leaving in about a full moon’s time.”

He nods slowly. “Rickon will miss you terribly,” he points out. Jon doesn’t look at her when he speaks.

 _But_ you _won’t, of course._

Sansa tries to ignore the lump in her throat. “I’ll make him understand that this is necessary, that I’m doing this for him.”

“What do you mean by that?” He asks, a line creasing his brow. Despite her emotions, Sansa finds that for the second time she wants to reach out to him, smooth away that frown with her fingers. But then she remembers that he is not hers to touch, that he never will be. In due time Jon will belong to another, and whatever influence she may have once had on him will most likely diminish altogether.

“I’m doing what I think is best for what’s left of my family.” It’s a vague statement, and she’s aware of this, but it’s the most she’s willing to give. The less Jon knows, the easier her task will be when she reaches King’s Landing.

They regard each other in stony silence. Sansa plays with the idea of Jon missing her while she is gone, wonders if he will react in any way like he did when Arya had left them. In the end Winterfell couldn’t contain a soul as restless as hers, and her departure, just as sudden as her arrival, was a terrible blow to Jon’s morale. A sudden yearning for her younger sister washes over her, the same kind she experienced all those years before when she was a hostage of the Lannisters, or the period when she donned the skin of Alayne Stone. Sansa wonders where Arya is, what she is doing this very moment. Jon would have been happier, would smile a little more and laugh some, if Arya were still here. That was supposed to be the point of going back to Winterfell: to start afresh, move on. She had miscalculated badly, it seemed.

He would have gone with her, Sansa reflects. If Jon’s sense of duty hadn’t been as strong as she thinks hers is, he would have rather followed Arya to whatever corner of the world her feet took her, chasing whatever freedom was left to them, rather than be left here, in Winterfell, with Rickon and herself. The place she considers home stopped being his a long time ago.  
  
She rises from her seat wordlessly. Jon doesn’t stop her.

“Will you look after Winterfell while I’m gone? For Rickon?”

This would be the last time she asks Jon for anything. She is tired of asking, hates that she has to, but there are no other options. Sansa is more than determined to succeed in King’s Landing, though she knows that she has little choice. If nobody will fight for her, then she will fight for herself.

Jon nods silently. She wishes he would smile at her, just a small one like she had seen on him earlier, but he can’t even manage that in her presence. He must be truly wary of her these days.

_It won’t be like this anymore, not after I return from King’s Landing._

Before she leaves his solar she turns around to face him one last time. There is something else she needs to tell Jon, and it is necessary if she seeks to gain the favor of his aunt.

Their eyes meet from across the room. His body is tense, and she suspects that he is on the cusp of telling her something, but she speaks before he gets any chance to. Sansa is tired of waiting for the things she wants to hear.

“In the south they sing songs about Arianne Martell, you know. They sing about how beautiful and kind she is, how she can light up the darkest of places with just a smile. Imagine how bright the North will shine if she was your queen.”

Sansa does not wait for a response, only walks out as soon she finishes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr, but the next chapter is going to be hella long, so decided to upload this now. Comments and feedback are wonderful, but as long as you're not throwing raw potatoes at me, I think I'll be happy.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa studies the direwolf figure that she holds with both her hands, turning it at various angles to inspect the work, determine its level of craftsmanship. The truth, however, is that she doesn’t possesses much of an expert eye on the subject—it’s only her first time making such a purchase. The figure spans the length of her hand, meaning that it will be a formidable size in Rickon’s; it is her intention to send him something that will strike him with a sense of awe when he sees it, where his blue eyes will widen in delight when Maester Tarly presents it to him. The thought forces the corners of her mouth upwards into a smile.

“Hope it’s to your liking, ma'am.”

She lifts her head to look up at the man responsible for producing the figure. Saulman is his name, and he is young, with skin that has darkened thanks to a lifetime facing the sun’s harsh rays. There is a slight hunch in his back that gives off the impression that he is perpetually downcast, but for the short length of time that she’s known him, Sansa has only seen him with a jolly disposition. 

“I like it very much,” she responds, thumbing one of the direwolf’s stiff ears. “Still, I must confess that my opinion is of little value.” Sansa only means to tease him a little, but his face tightens with anxiety.

“The small lad will enjoy it, I hope,” Saulman says, fidgeting with the cloth that he had wrapped the figure in. Uneasiness lingers on his face as he watches her, her approval paramount. When she had first discussed the commission with him, she had provided as little information as necessary; just that she was in need of a gift for a younger brother of hers, and that he had a fondness for animals. Sansa hadn’t mentioned that she was commissioning a toy for the heir apparent of Winterfell. Luckily for her, Saulman hadn’t pried.

Sansa gestures for the cloth that he fidgets with, and he hands it to her. When she finishes wrapping the figure, she hands him the gray pouch that hangs from her waist. Saulman’s face relaxes immediately.

“The amount should suffice,” she says, as he opens the pouch to inspect the gold coins within. His eyes widen before he raises his head to look at her again.

“Ma'am, this is much more than you said you’d pay me.”

She smiles at him. “Yes, I know. But I value the time and effort you’ve put into this. And I’m not lying—the direwolf is beautiful. You deserve every piece that’s in there, I believe.”

It’s only a fraction of the truth. While she is indeed impressed with his honesty and expertise, her generosity stems from the fact that there is something in Saulman that reminds her of Rickon himself. Perhaps it is that airy innocence to him that dances in his eyes, or the way his untamed hair shines with flecks of copper in the sun, just like Rickon’s locks do when she had played with him in the fields just beyond Winterfell’s walls. When Sansa had first visited the marketplace to find a master craftsman whom she could commission, Saulman had not been her first choice. Their introduction had been by dint of luck—he had been sitting on a stump outside one of the workshops that she had visited, had overheard that she was looking for a deft hand, someone who was willing to shape a certain creature for her. To her misfortune, everyone had been busy whittling away at one dragon figure after another, unsurprising a trend as it was. She’d left the last of the workshops, her spirits low, when suddenly Saulman had appeared before her, his presence so abrupt that he sent the guard who had been with her into such a sharp defense that he’d nearly lost a hand in the process. Even when he had offered his services, Sansa had been skeptical; but they had both gambled on each other, and she supposes that, in the end, it paid off. She is now in possession of a beautifully crafted direwolf figure, which he had promise to put his best into, and she had believed him—to her own surprise. The ability to trust had been taken away from her a long time ago, but she isn’t sure if that’s a good thing anymore.

“Really appreciate this, ma’am,” he gushes, his ears reddening. She can only guess, but she thinks that he is only a few years older than herself, though he has mentioned his wife and children several times. He could be lying about them, of course, just as she is lying to him about her rank; though he knows that she comes to the marketplace from the Red Keep, Sansa had convinced him that she was only a minor attendant to a wealthy benefactress. It probably wouldn’t surprise her if he was lying, and she wouldn’t fault him for it. Life beyond the royal court is vastly different, but the end goal, she thinks, is still the same: survive. Whether the scene is the gilded halls of a royal castle or the cramped, impoverished alleyways of a city as ancient as King’s Landing, sometimes one must do what is necessary in order to stay afloat.

It’s the only reason why she’s here.

“Perhaps you can delight your family with something this evening,” she suggests lightly.

He nods eagerly, and she is happy to see his countenance brighten so quickly. Sansa thinks it’s genuine, and for her, that’s quite enough—whether it is or not.

“I never seen a direwolf up close before,” Saulman blurts, staring at the wrapped up figure in her hands. “Would probably run were I ever to meet one.”

“They’re very loyal creatures, if you get to know them.”

He looks back at her doubtfully, but she’s not surprised; only a Stark, she thinks, knows the value and good in a direwolf.

Sansa is positive that she’ll never see Saulman again after she thanks him and they part ways, but she thinks that she’ll be forever grateful for the brief distraction that he provided her. She knows that Rickon will be pleased with this gift; it will be the first that she sends to him from King’s Landing, and is more tangible than the promises that she had made to him prior to her departure.

_When I come back, I swear I’ll bring with me as many lemons as I can, and together we’ll eat lots and lots of lemon cakes, so many that we’ll get sick to our stomachs. Won’t that be just grand, Rickon?_

Her words had lifted her little brother’s spirits a little. Rickon had accepted her plans begrudgingly in the end, but not without a steady stream of tears and begging. It had broken her heart to see him in such a state; again and again Sansa lamented over what had to be done, the measures that she had to take in order to secure the last of her family’s well-being. How much easier things would have been, if only it had been different between herself and Jon. It’s fanciful thinking, of course; he hadn’t even bothered to respond to the letter she had sent him a week after her arrival in King’s Landing. Sansa suspects that he never will.

Though she longs for the day when she can finally make good on her promises to Rickon, each day that passes brings about more uncertainty. Today marks a fortnight since she arrived at King’s Landing, and so far her reception at court has been somewhat cooler than she may have anticipated. Daenerys had welcomed her, of course, pleased that she had finally accepted her invitation, but there had been an air of uneasiness to her that Sansa could not shake off, even now. Even while she’s been fortunate enough that Her Grace includes her in various outings and activities, she has yet to hold a private conversation with her. Worse, whatever talk they do manage in each other’s company usually pertains to the Queen’s nephew, whom Sansa would much rather not discuss. Their relations, when it comes down to it, remain distant and formal, and the limit of her progress since her arrival leaves her dejected. Finding something to send back north to Rickon is just as much for her benefit as it is for his; it provides a temporary respite from her worries at court, and it gives her an excuse to escape the place where so many terrible memories stem from.

Sometimes they are benign, those memories; other times, though she wakes up without knowing what she dreamt about, the streaks of blood that stain her bed coverings tell her all that she needs to know.

“Back to the castle, my Lady?” Kyllan asks, just behind her. He’s been assigned to her as a personal guard since she had arrived, and she likes him well enough. He doesn’t talk much, which she appreciates, but his sharp eyes tell her that her whereabouts are being well noted.

“Just a little longer, please,” she insists. It’s too soon to head back, and it’s that time of day when the heat is still bearable enough so that exploration is possible. Both of them are dressed simply, as per her request, allowing them to blend in with the crowds. The marketplace that they pass through, one of several that exist in King’s Landing, is loud and frenetic this morning, though the sun has only risen a few hours. The energy here, so different from the energy that permeates the marketplace in Winter town, feeds her curiosity more, and she takes in the sights and sounds wholeheartedly.

Standing before a row of narrow houses that also serve as business fronts, it suddenly dawns on her that, amidst this swarm of bustle and chaos, where scores of people shove and pull against her, she finally feels like she has some privacy. It’s a telling sign how dire things are at the Red Keep, where privacy is a concept that’s as evasive as rain in the red waste, as rare as Valyrian steel. Everyone’s eyes, whether it be those belonging to a southron courtier or a servant, are wide and alert, though they make a pretense of looking elsewhere when she glances over her shoulder. Ear single ear is open to all noise and gossip, while tongues wag incessantly, without any remorse for the consequences. These are the ones who are still too fresh at court, who believe that because a new dynasty presides over the Seven Kingdoms, things are different. They are, to a degree; Daenerys takes her role more seriously than Robert Baratheon ever did, and is certainly more merciful than Joffery Lannister. Sansa believes that the Queen’s accomplishments surpass those of the previous monarchs combined, and there is no doubt that she has the respect and loyalty of many. But even someone as powerful as Daenerys is powerless to stop the machinations that go on within the walls of her domicile, where intrigue and scheming are as natural as birth and death. It’s the way of a southron court, a trait that runs as thick as blood, and it is something that neither she, or the Queen, will ever be able to understand, having been raised elsewhere. 

Her thoughts roam from one subject to another when a screech resonates somewhere above her. It’s unmistakable, that sound, and when she looks at her surroundings she sees that she is not the only one who is affected by it. Around her, the occupants of the marketplace pause from their current doings, and those who are beneath awnings or behind their stalls hurry forth to where the sky is most visible to them. The frenetic pace that she’d been taking strange shelter in morphs into something else entirely, a hum of excitement that is undercut with a tinge of fear.

When Sansa hears the heavy flap of wings, she knows that they are here.

She arches her neck to look up into the sky, just as the massive body of a dragon hovers above her, so close that she can see the scaly texture of its belly. So large is the creature that it blocks out the sun entirely, so that the area where she stands blackens so suddenly that she almost thinks that evening has descended upon them in a mere blink. The dragon flies off somewhere, and the marketplace is flooded with light again; it’s such a lightning-quick change that she has to turn her eyes away from the sky to let them settle again.

Someone amongst the crowd yells ‘The Queen’s reign be long and prosperous!’ before there is a deafening roar of cheers and clapping all around her as the Queen’s dragons continue their dance high above the capital—a magnificent, awful sight to behold, no matter how many times one has seen it. About once a week they make their appearance in the sky, a grand spectacle that is no doubt meant to remind the masses of the Targaryen’s might.

After having witnessed their flight for the first time, Sansa had wondered what it would be like to control such creatures; the thought, however, made her long for Lady, her sweet and beautiful direwolf, and she had tried to cast her curiosity aside. Now though, as she watches the dragons circle around the Red Keep, the thought re-ignites itself, along with her yearning. How nice it would be, she laments, if only Lady were still alive, if she could have accompanied her here, to this ancient city with all its royal pomp and blood-soaked memories; Sansa is sure she would never feel as lonely as she does. Lady had been perfectly innocent, for she hadn’t even been present when Joffery and Arya had gotten themselves into that terrible row, and, oh, how foolish she had been, naive as a baby, to be used by the Lannisters –

_You stupid, stupid, girl. You’ll never learn, will you?_

Sansa whips her head around in search of that voice, eyes wide with confusion. How could it be?

“My Lady, are you well?”

When her eyes take in the man before her, Kyllan is watching her uneasily, his lips set in a thin line of bemusement. She is still on edge, anticipating that voice again, in all its condescending glory, but nothing comes. The heat, she thinks. It _has_ to be the heat that is causing her to hear things, especially in a voice that should no longer exist. Yes, that must be it, she convinces herself, almost desperately, as she turns to look ahead once more.

“Kyllan,” she says, clutching the wrapped direwolf figure close to her heart. “It’s time we go back.”

 

* * *

 

Sansa pauses over her writing desk, unsure how to continue the letter she composes for her little brother. She has no plans to send it anytime soon, for she only just had one delivered to him a week ago, together with the direwolf figure. But she finds that writing to Rickon is a soothing activity, and it is no longer a surprising thing for her to write several letters to him on a weekly basis, though most of them meet their end when she angles them above the flame of a candle; quickly it disintegrates to ashes in the wastebasket that sits to the side of her desk, never to be read.

There is a light tap on her door just as she dips her quill into the ink bottle. The door opens and Alys Longley steps forward. Unlike the female servants employed under the royal treasury, she does not wear the typical plum-colored uniform that most do, but a more weather appropriate version of her dress that she wore at Winterfell; colored in Stark gray, with sleeves that only reach her elbows, it is obvious that she is one of Sansa’s own, one of the three of her household from the North that she was allowed to bring with her to King’s Landing.

“What is it, Alys?”

“I beg your pardon, My Lady,” she starts, her hand still cradling the door handle from the other side, “But Her Grace wishes that you would join her for the midday meal.”

Sansa is surprised at this sudden request. She thinks she’s just found the right words to put down on paper, but she knows that she is in no position to turn down any invitation from the queen. Rickon’s letter will have to wait, unfortunately; she glances down at the piece of paper while she wracks her mind for anything telling that she might have written on it, but nothing poignant comes to mind. She’s grateful that she won’t have to burn this one too, just like so many others prior to it, for fear of a servant discovering it. Words, she finds, are incredibly unstable, like a house of cards—all it takes is a little nudge, and its true meaning can come toppling down in a haze of misinterpretation. Even if her letters are harmless, she knows that they can prove fatal should they to fall into the wrong hands.  
  
She puts her quill down on her writing desk before rising from her seat. “If Her Grace wishes it, then of course I will join her,” she insists.

The Queen’s midday meal takes place on a private balcony that overlooks Blackwater Bay. As Sansa approaches the table, she is surprised to find that apart from Daenerys, only one other seat is available – hers. Sansa was expecting a few more courtiers to join them, or, at the least, Tyrion. It will be her first time dining alone with the Queen.

She wonders whether she should be worried or not.

“I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything when I asked for you,” Daenerys says, after Sansa drops to a curtsy.

“Not at all, Your Grace. I was only writing a letter to my younger brother.”

“I see. Do you know if he is well?”

Sansa nods. “I believe so, Your Grace. He writes to me just as eagerly — by the way he complains about his lessons, I can tell that he is as he’s always been.”

Daenerys smiles with amusement. “You must miss him a great deal, yes?”

Sansa lowers herself onto the chair that an attendant pulls out for her. “I do, Your Grace. It was very difficult to part from him. He is so young, and has suffered the fate of having grown up most his life without his mother. I know that I’m a poor substitute, but as his sister I try to do whatever I can.”

The Queen regards her wordlessly for a moment while the first course is laid out before them. A chilled soup with cream at the top – a southron staple, she remembers.

“And what about my nephew, the King in the North? Do you miss him just as much?”

Sansa inhales sharply, though she knows that it’s covered by the sound of the waves that crash against the rocks below them. Daenerys watches her with interest, her violet eyes flaked with curiosity.  

She knows that she needs to answer wisely, if only because she suspects that Daenerys has her own opinions about the relationship between the King in the North and the Lady Regent of Winterfell, whether it merely exists within the boundaries of the filial. Sansa is all too aware of the gossip that passes from one courtier to another, knows that the meaning behind those whispers are too delectable to keep from the Queen herself. It’s quite laughable, really, when she knows the truth about the whole matter. To answer in the negative would be terribly callous and disrespectful, but to say yes could be just as detrimental for her; Sansa is sure that it would only add fuel to the fire of Daenery’s suspicions.

In the end, she opts for evasion, or something akin to it; at the least, it is as neutral an answer as she can forge.

“The King is dear enough to me that I always remember to include him in my prayers, just as I include Your Grace.”

Daenerys studies her. Sansa does her best to keep her expression as cool as possible.

“You follow the old gods, do you not?”

“I do, Your Grace.”

The Queen looks at her as if she is waiting for her to say something more, but Sansa remains silent.

“How kind of you to include us in your prayers,” she says, but the smile that goes with it does not quite reach her eyes.

Though it had been a Targaryen who had popularized the Faith of the Seven to the continent, it does not appear that Daenerys upholds the religion of her ancestors, nor any other religious inclination. Sansa wonders if she really is all that impressed with her own devotion, weak as they are these days. She has only visited the godswood twice since returning to King’s Landing, and only once did she feel moved enough to settle upon a rock and pray. The prayers do not come naturally, as they are meant to; she is still too used to the versed kind that her Septa taught to her as a young girl, even though she has forsaken the new gods entirely. There is so much of her past self that she wishes to discard, yet she finds that there are remnants that still cling to her skin and mind stubbornly, like sand.  

She remembers the voice she had heard at the marketplace, condescending as ever, and Sansa tries her best to push it aside.

Whether the Queen is displeased with her answer, she does not show it. As the rest of the dishes come out, other pleasantries are exchanged, much to Sansa’s relief; their conversations revolve around what she would consider safe subjects, meaning that they are wholly un-Jon in nature. She tries to eat as much as she can handle before Her Grace, though the food is too rich for her liking. There’s a culmination of too many ingredients, which is often the way of the south; always abundant in their resources, they are desperate that everyone else be made aware of it, too. As she looks at the next dish that is placed on the table, Sansa can’t help but reminisce on the simpler meals back home, of black bread and pottage, of ale brewed the way it has always been brewed, for hundreds, if not thousands, of years.

“How do feel about your accommodations, Lady Stark? Is your bedchamber to your liking?”

Sansa looks up from her pie. “I’ve yet to find any fault with my lodgings, Your Grace. They serve me very well.”

“I’m pleased to hear that,” Daenerys says, gesturing with her hand for another cup of summer wine that is promptly brought to her. “The choice to house you in the east portion was the Hand’s doing, you know. He thought that you would prefer something different to what you had when you last stayed in King’s Landing.”

Sansa manages a smile. “I must thank Lord Tyrion for his considerations, then. He has done me a great kindness.”

“He is certainly capable of that, amongst other things,” Daenerys points out. There is a knowing look on her beautiful face, and it beckons for clarification.

“Your Grace?”

The woman in question takes a sip of her summer wine, though her gaze remains staunchly on Sansa. “Lord Tyrion, as you probably already know, is currently responsible for negotiating a possible union between my nephew and Arianne Martell. He’s told me recently that he’s confident that the terms we lay out will be to their satisfaction, and that things will fall into place soon enough.”

Sansa nods stiffly. “Of course.”

“There is, however, one other important issue to this matter, as I’m sure you’re well aware of,” Daenerys points out, watching her carefully.

She does. Everyone at court does, whether they be high-born or low. And though she tries her very best, Sansa cannot stop herself from averting her gaze elsewhere. It is such a minute action, as easy to miss as a needle in a haystack, but it’s a costly mistake, one that she’ll be berating herself over for days to come. When Sansa looks back at the Queen apologetically, she knows all too well that the damage is done, that the meaning is as clear as day. The Queen’s mouth is set in a thin line, her blonde-white eyebrows drawn in.

“You say you write letters to your younger brother,” the Queen mentions. “Do you not write any to the King in the North?”

 Beneath the table, Sansa begins to trace shapes on the back of her hand. “The King is a very busy man, Your Grace — I doubt that he has any time to read anything that I may write to him.”

“I might have to disagree with that,” Her Grace says, almost sternly. “From what I’m told, my nephew holds you in very high regard.”

 _Not anymore_ , she wants to say, but she holds her tongue. It is clear in the conviction of her words that the Queen will not be swayed, even if Sansa were to voice her thoughts.

“I believe that His Grace holds me in the same regard as he does every nobleman of his realm,” she declares as evenly as possible.

Doubt is obvious on Daenerys’s face. “So you’ve not written to the King at all, since your arrival?”

“Only one letter, Your Grace,” she confesses.

“And what did it contain?”

She tries to mask her surprise towards such a blatant inquiry. She immediately suspects that the Queen already knows what was written in that letter, for she has no doubt that the messenger she had handed it to had, in turn, passed it to Daenerys. This must be a test, she thinks, a test of honesty.

“It was a very formal letter,” she describes, no longer aware of the food that is set before her. “I merely informed him that I had a safe journey and that I was pleased to be back in King’s Landing once again.”

Her Grace raises an eyebrow. “And do you believe that you described the charms of the south well enough, Lady Stark?”

Sansa frowns, unsure of what to make of this. “I believe I did my best, Your Grace. And if I failed, it’s only because my words could not do the south the justice it so rightfully deserves. Its charms can only be experienced first-hand.”

“Did your letter contain anything else?”

She isn’t sure what the Queen is looking for. Worse, she has no idea whether Daenerys has read the letter or not, no matter how hard she tries to see past her controlled features. There is something to this conversation, however, that makes her think that it’s leading somewhere important, and she tries to remember what else she may have written, anything that hadn’t been incriminating.   

“I couldn’t help but mention Princess Arianne,” she includes.

“Only good things, I hope.”

“Oh yes, certainly,” she insists, her smile as assuring as she can make it, even while she aches on the inside. It is something she tells herself she must get use to, painful as the task always is. “I described how the capital positively hummed with excitement over the possibility of the Princess’s arrival, and how unsurprised I was by this, seeing as her beauty and talents are said to be unmatched.”

Daenerys tilts her head in a contemplative manner. “Do you the King is convinced of her unparalleled character?”

“His Grace has never written back to me,” she discloses with a confident ring, hoping that it might dispel any of belief about the closeness of their relationship. “But word of the Princess’s many charms had reached us long before I took my leave. In my opinion, His Grace seemed just as enthralled with her as everyone else.”

The Queen regards her silently, as if trying to gauge the truth in her words. It reminds her of the way Littlefinger had scrutinized her, when she had once been under his tutelage. He would have been quite pleased with her charade, she thinks, would have been even more pleased to know that his legacy lives somewhere within her.

Daenerys sighs and sets her cup on the table. “A letter was delivered to me this morn, written by the King himself. When I read it, I had it in mind that you were responsible for its contents.”

Sansa watches the Queen uneasily.

“I suppose you were highly successful in convincing His Grace of all the charms the south has to offer, enough that he feels that he now has to experience them himself.”

Daenery’s words don’t immediately register, likely because they paint a scene that she had thought was as unlikely as the sky falling. Even when she realizes what has been told to her, Sansa doesn’t entirely believe it.

“Jon – His Grace, I mean – is coming to King’s Landing?”

The Queen nods. “So it seems. His arrival is set three weeks from now.”

 

* * *

 

It seems as if the whole of King’s Landing is thrown into a frenzy of excitement and anticipation at Jon’s arrival, news of it having spread as rapidly as wildfire. He has never set foot in the south before, not like her; everyone, from the southron nobles to the smallfolk that crowd the ghettos of the ancient city, are eager to see this sovereign who rules over a region most have never set foot in, and most never will.

Sansa is furious.

She wants to rail at everyone for this unfortunate turn of events, whether it be her handmaiden, or the gods, be it the old or the new; in her eyes, they are all guilty.

Of course, the one person she wants to chew out most for this is Jon himself.

What was the meaning behind all of this? Where did his inclination suddenly come from? Sansa cares not what the Queen had disclosed to her, for she doesn’t believe, not for a moment, that the one letter she had written to him would have the effect that Daenerys believes it did. She remembers devoting only one or two sentences about King’s Landing, and they were fairly general. She had even been honest when she described the letter as formal — instead of ‘Jon,’ she had addressed him as ‘Your Grace,’ and had merely divulged the barest of details. The letter was only intended to assure him of her safe arrival, and was entirely different than those she wrote to Rickon. In her mind, she was thoroughly convinced that she had nothing to do with Jon’s decision to ride south.

But then, who was?

Certainly not his royal aunt, if the court gossip is to be taken seriously. Daenerys was in no way impressed with her nephew’s decision to visit King’s Landing, and had supposedly told him as much in a letter of her own. The current state of affairs, however, suggests that Jon does not heed her disapproval; even if he does, it isn’t enough to stop him from journeying to the capital. Extensive preparations for his arrival continue to be well under way, and it is widely believed that this meeting between these two monarchs will be as glittering and majestic as anything that has ever been seen. In Sansa’s mind, Daenerys’s consternation lies in the fact that she had probably hoped to announce his arrival together with another piece of news, that which pertains to one Dornish princess.   

For all Sansa knows, this could very well be Jon’s intention for coming south. Perhaps he’s finally ready to take matters into his own hands and negotiate this union on his own terms, rather than accept those that his aunt suggests. It would certainly be a different side to him, she thinks bitterly. Jon hadn’t been particularly receptive to the idea of marriage when it had been brought forth to him by his councilors, but she had thought it was because of his desire to keep himself from getting trapped again, the way he had gotten trapped into this design that had somehow made him king. A design that _she_ had had a hand in.  

Oddly enough, the only consolation she has received since the news broke of Jon’s arrival is his imminent delay. As he makes his way south, more and more nobles seek to host the King in the North at their estate than the days allot, but appearances leave him and his party no choice. To make matters worse, many of them have decided to join Jon on his journey southward, increasing the number of bodies that make up his already formidable entourage. It’s a far different picture than her own journey to King’s Landing; only three members of her own household were permitted to join her, as had been explained to her in a letter sent from the Lord Stewart of the Red Keep. Apparently, the Queen had been gracious enough to allow for an extra member, thanks in part to her ties to the King in the North. It was a small comfort, seeing how badly her relationship with him has become, but Sansa knows that she should take what she can get.

“It’s an absolute mess, is what it is,” Tyrion complains one morning, as they enjoy a brief walk in the eastern garden. It is odd, and yet at the same time it is not, that one of the people she can keep some easy company with is her former husband. “The numbers seem to go up each day, and now he’s apparently bringing about two hundred members of his court, which has placed the Lord Stewart in a rather bad state. We’ve barely enough space to fit those who come through the damn place. Now we’re expected to fit two hundred more?”

Sansa does not realize that there is a perfect opportunity here until the very last moment. When she does, she grasps for it like a beggar grasps for the coins that are thrown his way.

“I can seek lodgings elsewhere, my Lord,” she suggests, perhaps a little too eagerly. “I hear that by Her Grace’s orders, many of the courtiers are being forced take shelter in their own city residences. Surely my leave will make some much-needed space, as well?”

The Queen’s Hand arches his neck to look up at her, his eyes narrow from squinting at the sun.

“You have no city residence of your own, my dear. Wherever will you go?”

_Anywhere. Just don’t put me under the same roof with him._

“A city as bustling as King’s Landing will be full of respectable places for a lady to stay at,” she points out. “Besides, the King in the North is accustomed to his spacious lodgings at Winterfell, and he values his privacy more than anything. It won’t do for the Red Keep to be stuffed to the full with so many people, if you don’t mind me pointing out.”

Especially people he has no regard for, she thinks. Sansa keeps this to herself.

“I highly doubt that the King in the North will find you a nuisance,” he assures, though his words soothe her not in the least. “He’ll find a face as familiar as yours comforting, if anything. No, it’s best that you remain in the castle, my lady.”  
  
She clenches her teeth. “Surely you won’t stop me from doing whatever part I can to alleviate some of the Queen’s worries,” she argues. She longs to tell him how much of a favor she is actually doing Jon, by removing herself from the Red Keep. Whatever reason he has for coming south, she thinks that he’ll have an easier time of it without her lingering about when it’s not necessary. More importantly, though, is the fact that her absence might keep Jon in better spirits; hopefully this would mean that his own sentiments towards her will not rub off on his royal aunt, who already seems to hold her responsible for her nephew’s rash decision. While Daenerys still behaves civilly in front of her, it is much cooler than she is used to, so much so that the other members of her court are paying attention as well. Sansa is not blind to the whispers and glares directed at her when she passes by, and she tries her best to play it off as lightly as possible. In the back of her mind, though, she wonders how she managed to land herself in a position that is only slightly less humiliating than the one had held when she had last been at King’s Landing. Perhaps she is fated to do badly in the royal capital, no matter who sits on the Iron Throne.

“Lady Stark,” Tyrion says, just as they find themselves beneath a tree whose branches are heavy with blossoms — a telling sign that summer is coming to a close. “I can assure you that your leave will only be cause for more worry. I would, if I were you, set aside any notion of vacating the castle, though I understand your intentions are good-hearted. There is also the fact that you’re the King’s cousin. This means that you, out of all the courtiers, have a right to the rooms of the Red Keep.”

She doesn’t speak immediately, disappointed in the outcome of their conversation. All this talk of her accommodations, however, reminds her of something that had been pointed out when she had last dined with the Queen.

“Her Grace told me that it was you who had arranged a bedchamber for me in the eastern portion.”

“I thought you might prefer it, my lady.”

Sansa looks down at the Queen’s Hand. “You’re very considerate.”

The words come out flat, even while she meant to show him how grateful she was.

When Tyrion tilts his head towards her again, his expression is a surprising one; rather than the relaxed, nonchalant visage he is so well-known for, the look on his face speaks of hauntings and tragedies, and it is so uncharacteristic that she stops in her tracks. Sansa sometimes forgets that he has suffered just as much as she when they had last resided in the Red Keep, but she wonders if the memories lodge as deep within the recesses of his mind as they do in hers. Her former husband has only one or two scars to remind him of his suffering; she has a map of them across her body, some of which tell stories that have not yet quite ended.

“I remember that you couldn’t sleep, the last time,” he says. “I hope it’s better now, though.”

It’s not, to be honest, but she only smiles quietly down at him.

Waiting, it seems, is the only option left to her.

So, she waits.

_For what, though?_

 

 

 

 

 **Author's Notes:** First and foremost, a huge, _huge_ , Thank You to everyone who read the first part of this mess – your response is more than I could ever have hoped for, and it was a constant drive to get the second part out, even when I thought to abandon it due to writer’s block. All that being said, some of you might find this chapter terribly disappointing, though it is a necessary one; I wouldn’t be able to set up the rest of the story without it. You’ll like the next few chapters though, I promise.

Once again, your comments and feedback are pure bliss! If you’re bored, come grace your presence on [Tumblr](http://mon-blanchetts.tumblr.com) – tell me what your favourite Chipotle combination is, or something. I’m all ears.


	3. Chapter 3

When she couldn’t hold her breath any longer, Sansa emerged from the depths of her bath, panting for air. The chamber was warm and heavy with moisture, while the light from the braziers and candles left sinister shadows across the floor—a strange, convulsing mass desperate for some kind of freedom from the darkness. A small window high above the wall adjacent to her was the only filter to the outside world; she could hear the waves crashing against the cliffs, but this evening the sounds were menacing, when they were usually a soothing comfort. So much was marred, now that Jon had finally arrived.

She was grateful that the only thing that had been planned today was the procession itself, and even that felt like it had stretched on for an eternity. A good soak in her tub had washed off all the dust and perspiration from her body, while the hot water had melted some of the ache in her bones. Sansa had never been particularly comfortable on horses, and a prolonged ride through the royal capital had left her legs and arms sore. She knew that it couldn’t be helped, though; the procession had moved at a glacial pace, considering the crowds that had lined the streets, bodies and bodies pressed against each other as they tried to catch a better glimpse of both their queen and this King in the North they had only heard of, but never seen. Sansa doubted that Jon lived up to their expectations, but that wasn’t surprising. He didn’t appear before them dressed in a shimmering coat of armor, nor did he have a head of white-blonde hair like his aunt; from what she had witnessed, he came as much of himself as he could, a northerner with no illusions of being otherwise. His clothes had hearkened to the severe reality that existed in the kingdom he ruled over, where frills and fancy were distant concepts.    

The thought of his attire made her smile as she leaned her head against the edge of the tub, but it disappeared as soon as she remembered the way Jon had caught sight of her for the first time in so many moons, though she had been several rows down from the front of the procession. Sansa thought that she had forgotten those looks of his, or, at the least, that she had been successful enough in pushing them into the deeper recesses of her mind, so as to cast the illusion that she had forgotten. But the moment she had laid eyes on his sullen face— _the face of a Stark,_ she had thought, suddenly conscious of her bright red hair and Tully-blue eyes—it all came flooding back, like a dam that had burst, making her wish that she had come up with an excuse to stay behind at the Red Keep, rather than be drawn in with the party of nobles and courtiers that had accompanied Daenerys behind her to and from the keep. She wasn’t impressed with herself.

_Neither was Jon_ , she thought. The resentment she’d felt towards him ever since she’d been told of his arrival edged back to the surface, but now that he was actually here, she felt tired, above anything. Their reunion flashed through her mind again before earlier scenes drifted back towards her: the clang of Jon’s cup as he tapped it against the arm of his chair, when she told him of her plans to go south, like a drumming march that encouraged her to leave faster; Ghost, howling at the moon on the night before she left for the royal capital, keeping her and most of Winterfell wide awake—that same night, Rickon had snuck into her bedchamber, his head leaning against her shoulder, while she sang softly into his ear, of farmers who had misplaced their livestock and of ladies who married magical beasts disguised as handsome knights, hoping to cast out the direwolf’s cries. Sansa remembered how sad and agonizing his howls were, just as vividly as she remembered how irritated and tired she’d been because of them.

A squawk from outside startled her from her thoughts. Hoping to get a shift over herself before Alys returned, Sansa rose from the tub and reached for a piece of linen to dry herself. But even so much as a slight stretch worsened the stinging sensation on her back, and she hissed at the feeling. _It’s only because it’s still fresh_ , she said to herself, dabbing the piece of linen on a specific portion of her back. She had seen the damage her nails had made only this morning, had managed to wash the blood off the wound before her handmaiden had arrived to help, but she still couldn’t stop herself from taking another peak at it again right now.

With her back facing the glass, Sansa studied the source of the stinging discomfort: a scar, no longer than her smallest finger, that intersected her right shoulder blade, like a fine stitch she had sewn into her own pale skin using the lightest of red thread that she owned. There were more of them on her body, scars that she had re-opened, some while she’d been awake and some while she’d been asleep. Memories of Joffery’s cruelty, of the rage he took out on her because of Robb’s victories, all of them slowly being restored to life whenever her nails scraped across them again and again, raw enough until they drew blood. She knew the habit was worsening, but in the back of her mind she always had an inkling that it wasn’t going to get any better, either. The sight of those reopened scars was both satisfying and worrisome, but she continued to stare at the freshest one across her shoulder blade until she heard soft footsteps outside her door, those that were undoubtedly Alys’s.

Once, and only once, did she consider getting the matter looked at by Maester Tarly. She had clamped down on the idea as soon as it arose. There were some things she’d rather keep to herself—this was one of them.

* * *

Sansa looked over her shoulder to stare at Alys, her eyebrows knitted together with curiosity. Sleep had been difficult to get last night, as with most nights, but on this one in particular there was an endless cacophony of footsteps and noises that drifted from the hallways outside her chambers and from the world beyond her windows, as if someone was bound to burst through her door at any moment. It was a similar fear that had gripped her all those years ago as well.

“Her Grace wants to see me this early in the day? Are you sure?”

“Yes, my lady.”

She returned to the glass before her, sighing quietly to herself. “If that is her wish.”

Kyllan was waiting outside her door when she emerged for the day. She followed behind him as he guided her towards the queen’s apartments, located in a wing far from her own bedchamber, but she knew that they were getting close as the hallways grew denser with people, courtiers who were hoping to get a word in as Her Grace walked through the corridors to get to wherever she was needed for the day. A few of them eyed her curiously as walked passed them, but she kept her head high and her gaze ahead of her, never once wavering.  

The queen’s bedchamber was sumptuously decorated: the walls were covered with beautifully-rendered tapestries and the freshest of flowers were elegantly arranged throughout, but the room itself felt smaller than she had anticipated. This wasn’t the same one that Cersei Lannister had occupied when she was queen—that room had been reworked for other purposes, the archways and columns demolished and new walls erected so as to vanquish her memory and spirit forever.  

Daenerys herself was seated at her dressing table, watching her through the immense glass. Several handmaidens fluttered around the room, attending to the queen’s toiletries and the general upkeep of her room.

Sansa had barely risen from her curtsy when the queen spoke. “Would you dress my hair this morning, Lady Stark? I’m looking for a fresh design to wear today, and I feel that a different pair of hands might just do the trick.”

She blinked several times in surprise. “I only know so many patterns, Your Grace,” she confessed.

“Are they northern styles?”

“I believe so, Your Grace.”

“Perfect,” she crooned, before dismissing all of her handmaidens from the room. The move was enough to put her on the alert, but all the women had moved swiftly passed her to the door before she could attempt some polite protest. Daenerys gestured for her to come forward, her violet eyes gazing at her reflection in the glass as she went to stand behind her. The queen was already dressed for the day, in a sleeveless gown of sapphire blue that draped effortlessly over her shoulders and across her waist. She always preferred softer styles, but Sansa knew that she was anything but.  

It felt rather strange, she thought, peering down at the top of the queen’s head like this, her hair free of any braids or curls. It made her less regal than she was known to appear, perhaps even a little vulnerable. Sansa felt the same way when she sat before her own dressing table, while Alys dressed her own hair into the elaborate styles that made her a little bit more than she was. _A woman’s own kind of armor_ , Margery had said to her, once; the older Sansa got, the more she believed her. A small smile ghosted along her mouth when she thought about the Aryas and Briennes of the world, women who would have objected to her old friend’s personal philosophy.

One of Sansa’s hand hovered along the sides of the queen’s head while she went over the possibilities that she might be able to try. The very intricate ones were lost on her—not only was she incapable of them, but she doubted that Daenerys wanted that, either. Cradling a handful of her pale, blonde hair in her palm, Sansa couldn’t help but be intrigued by the feel of it against her skin, a texture that was so familiar and yet different as well. A design began to take shape in her head, one she had seen on Lady Karstark that stood out for reasons she can’t fathom, but was still fresh enough in her mind that was confident she could reproduce. With careful consideration she began to divide the hair into several sections, taking note of three sections in particular for the braids. Starting on the left side, she began the repetitive act of weaving one group of locks over the other, until little by little the first braid took shape.

“Was it your mother who taught you do this?” Daenerys asked, just as she was halfway through the first braid. Her fingers were working much slower than she would have liked, but she had little choice in the matter; it was one thing to braid her own hair, but another thing entirely to do someone else’s. Whatever muscle memory she had developed whenever she had to do her own braids did not transfer over, it seemed, forcing her to concentrate on her work.

“She tried, but I wasn’t as interested in the craft as she would have hoped. I liked it more when she did my hair for me, though.” While her eyes were firmly attuned to her hand movements, she can’t help the nostalgic smile from forming on her lips, the one which usually appeared whenever she thought about her mother.

“You’re very fortunate,” Daenerys mused, soft and absentminded, but there was an edge beneath that told Sansa the comment was anything but. “Perhaps you didn’t think so when she did it for you everyday, but how lovely that would have been, I imagine.”

“I wish I had appreciated it when I still had the chance,” she divulged.

“It never does work out that way, does it?”

She shook her head slowly. “No, Your Grace. It doesn’t.”

A brief silence descended upon them as she completed the first braid, only realizing just how long the queen’s hair was. The braid was tightly-made and equally proportioned, but Sansa was satisfied enough with it to continue with the next one.  

“You must be so happy to see Jon again,” the queen said suddenly. “We barely saw you at the banquet, though.”

“I was there, Your Grace,” she insisted, pretending to be deeply immersed in the hair she was dividing up again, but realizing that her earlier suspicions might be coming true.  

Sansa hadn’t wanted to attend the banquet, considering the hours-long feast that had preceded it, but she was all too aware that her absence would have sparked disapproving comments from the southern nobles, a breach of their formality and custom for someone of such high rank. So she went, in the end, though she had found herself wandering from one corner to another. It hadn’t been difficult avoiding the main attraction—Jon and Daenerys had been tightly surrounded by numerous courtiers and lords, all of them eager to get a word in, to be received by either in the hope that a private audience might follow sometime in the future, if they were fondly remembered. She opted to marvel at the workmanship that had gone into the banquet hall instead, which had been erected in the gardens south of the Red Keep in honor of Jon’s arrival. The structure might have appeared spacious and simple in its design, but she hadn’t missed the little details that the stonemasons had added along the ceiling, or the intricately-carved patterns that snake along the entire length of the columns. It was a strange fascination she had developed, ever since Winterfell fell into her hands. She would study the standing structures, the ones that had persisted against the Bolton’s wrath, had done so with a new set of eyes, finding new interest in its design and architecture, in its sturdiness. It was a characteristic she had come to appreciate much more nowadays, rather than the majestic, pretty castles she’d imagine running, together with a husband as dashing and handsome as herself, though he’d been rather faceless when she would run through her imaginings, oddly enough. Had she somehow known, deep in the bowers of her unconsciousness, the kind of marriages that would befall her? Had the faceless husband that she had fantasized about been so abstract because she had actually known that she was destined for men who could never live up to the image?

“You did not approach us though,” Daenery pointed out, startling her out of her reminiscences. “I could tell that the King was hoping you would come by, but you never did. It left him feeling rather down, you see.”

“Northerners aren’t used to this level of spectacle,” she explained, looking to convince the queen otherwise. “Perhaps the King was feeling overwhelmed. My father carried with him a similar attitude when we first came here, as well.”

“The King will want to see you, now that he’s here though. You know that, of course.”

She maintained a passive expression on her face. “If time permits, you mean.”

“With or without time,” the queen corrected. “I find that my nephew can be quite determined when he wants to be—take, for instance, his desire to visit the capital. How odd that he’s decided to come now, even if his reasons aren’t wholly ridiculous. And yet whenever I bring up the issue of marriage, he is as elusive as water through one’s fingers. It’s absolutely frustrating.”

Sansa tried to keep herself from smiling, knowing that it would be a sad one; it would have been too telling of her thoughts, but she had already learned from the blunder she had made the last time she was offered a private audience with the queen.

“His Grace never thought he could make a marriage as high-standing as the one you’re hoping for him,” she said, by way of some explanation. “It can be a lot to ask for someone who never thought he’d amount to anything more than a lord’s bastard. Now he’s faced with the idea of marrying a princess.” Sansa reached for a band on the dressing table to hold the second braid, but she worked with much more caution, now, as if the hair she held had the potential to burn her if handled too harshly. The fact that she was looking to her to understand Jon’s attitudes towards marriage made her anxious; the queen was fishing for a specific answer, and all she could do was be ready for it. It could make or break this sudden intimacy they were sharing, she realized. And, just like the courtiers and nobles that hovered outside in the hallways, she was just as eager to win Daenerys’s favor. Sansa knew that she was getting a better opportunity than most, thanks to her connections with Jon, but it was those same connections that could destroy everything, too.

She could feel the queen’s eyes studying her through the glass. “What do you suggest then, Lady Stark? How am I to convince him that he ought to marry Princess Arianne? I’ve already tried expounding all of her virtues and qualities, not to mention all that her inheritance can offer to the North. What now?”

_Inheritance_. It was a word she disliked terribly, almost as much as she disliked this conversation, necessary as it was.

“You must give it time, Your Grace,” she comforted. “The King respects you too much to discard any idea you may place before him, and he’s no stranger to duty. He knows what’s expected of him, and he’ll do the right thing, no matter how badly he might dislike it.”

“I know there are northern lords who aren’t so pleased with the idea of this union,” Daenerys said. “Some would prefer a bride from the north. And it’s not beyond the King’s rights to choose one, if that’s his wish.”

Sansa can’t stop herself from glancing at the queen’s face in the glass. From the look she received, she knew all too well what it was that the queen wanted to ask. _Are you one of them?_

“Princess Arianne is a suitable choice for His Grace,” she insisted.

Without warning Daenerys turned her head around to look up at her directly. Sansa dropped the last braid that she was plaiting in surprise, watching as it unraveled on its own.

“The braid, Your Grace,” she breathed, looking at her upended work a little forlornly.

“You can do it over,” she assured, but her tone was dismissive. “There’s something that I’d like you to do, Lady Stark.”

“Me?”

The queen nodded. “Yes. I think you’re the most apt at convincing the King that a union between himself and Princess Arianne is ideal, not just for the north, but for the whole of the Seven Kingdoms as well. _You_ , of all his councilors, should be able to bend his mind towards the idea. Would you do it, now that I’m asking you?”

Sansa blinked several times, trying to maintain her composure. “Are you asking me or ordering me, Your Grace?”

The queen’s smile is an amused one. “Which would you prefer?”

There didn’t seem to be a difference, now that she thought about it. “Your Grace, beg your pardon, but I’ve told you once before already my influence isn’t as strong as you like to think. Cousins we may be, but my advice isn’t something he always heeds.”

“Why do you always say that?” She questioned, her eyes narrowing a little. “You tell me you’ve little sway over my nephew, but you’ve offered no explanation of it. I’m not a fool, Lady Stark. I know that Jon will always be more of a wolf than he is a dragon, and I know that he holds his cousins in very high esteem—some more than others, I’m sure, but I’m rather inclined to believe that you fall in the former.”

“Your Grace, I’d rather not say.”

“Is it so treasonous?”

Sansa smiled sadly. “No, I wouldn’t go as far as that.”

“Then tell me. I want to know.”

Sansa considered the queen for a moment, arms lax at her sides. _Give a little to get a little,_ she reasoned. If she wanted Daenerys to trust her, she needed to show her that she could do the same, even if it was only to a certain degree.

“I haven’t always been true to the King,” she confided.

“How so?”

“I withheld information from him when he thought I shouldn’t have.”

Daenerys turned back in her seat, her face towards the glass. “Keep going,” she encouraged. Sansa knew that the braids weren’t the only thing she was referring to.

Her words were carefully chosen, but they were enough to paint a fairly authentic portrait of what had transpired. Sansa spoke of a Targaryen lineage that she had known about when Littlefinger had confided to her about the raven he had intercepted from the Lord of Greywater Watch, of Jon learning about her secrets only long after. But there were certainly things she hadn’t spoken of, either—like an angry kiss that had been shared, the way his hand had found the back of her head, nor the remnants of Littlefinger’s extensive legacy. She said nothing of Jon’s resentment, or of the way he looked at her like Robert Baratheon once looked at his own wife, shattering all of her hopes for them.

_“I wanted you to stay,” she blurted, reaching for his wrist. He refused to look at her, but she pushed on anyway, desperate to turn his mind over. “I wanted you to be by my side, so that we would never be separated the way we were before. How could we have done that, Jon? How could I have housed a Targaryen without the northern lords in a complete uproar?”_

_“You wanted a King who they would rally behind,” he accused, his tone as cold as ice._

“It’s a minor transgression,” Daenerys concluded, her voice like a blade that cut through her memories, “but I know how unforgiving my nephew can be as well.”

“Now you see why I may not be as useful to you as you think I am,” she said. “I suppose I’ve lost your respect as well, just as I’ve lost his.”

“Everyone has their secrets,” the queen noted, not unkindly. “And the Kingdom of the North still stands, despite that.”

Sansa smirked to herself. The final braid was completed at last, but one last thing had to be done to complete the design.

“I still want you to try,” Daenerys urged.

“Even after all I’ve told you, Your Grace?”

“Yes, even after all that,” she said, bobbing her head gently so as not to upset her work.

“May I ask why?”

A pensive silence pervaded the queen’s bedchamber as Sansa gathered all three braids to form an elaborate one at the back. She knew that confession made her less useful to Daenerys than she wanted to reveal, but she had gambling with her honesty, instead; it was a quality that was as rare as it was dangerous, here at court, but it was one that the queen also valued, at least when it was used right.

“You know that Jon has a right to the lands in and surrounding the Gift, do you not?”

“I do, Your Grace.”

“The marriage treaty that Lord Tyrion has drafted includes a very important term,” she disclosed, running her fingers through the loose strands of hair that fell over her shoulders. “The Gift will be the seat of power for the King in the North, where a castle fit for him and his consort will be erected. You know that that means, don’t you?”

Sansa’s hand stopped moving. Daenerys didn’t notice, or she didn’t care.

“Winterfell may be the home of the Starks, but Jon is also a Targaryen—he’s part of a new line, now. He deserves to be King in the North, though I’m sure many will disagree. You see, I wouldn’t have much of a kingdom now if he had never approached me about the threat from beyond the Wall. The North owes its independence to Jon because of that, but he owes his allegiance to me, as well. Until I marry and have children of my own, he is my heir. Because of that, his duty lies beyond the north, as well.”

Her heart was racing at this news, of this strange possibility. It sounded incredibly foreign in her ears, even while the question of Jon’s seat wasn’t something new. It had always been a point of mild contention amongst the lords, but it was never serious enough to cause any real animosity. As long as _they_ didn’t have to host him, why press the matter? It hadn’t even been an issue for her either, until their fallout changed everything.

“While the King settles into the Gift with his new consort, you and your brother would have full rights to your birthplace once more,” the queen intoned. “So, you may think that you have little influence over the king, but I don’t know if that would stop someone like you—not when you know there’s a prize to be won.”

Sansa didn’t know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult, but she didn’t really care if it were either, at this point; her mind was too crowded with all that she had been told, like that jar of beads that Old Nan once had, so full that the cork stopper wouldn’t push down all the way.  

“Will you help me, Lady Stark? So that I, in turn, can help you?”

The nakedness in her request took her off guard—what first felt like some merchant transaction was now varnished with something more familiar. Everything was a maddening turn of events, leaving her near distraction: she’d come to King’s Landing to curry favor with the queen because she’d lost Jon’s, only to be told that her best interests lay in revitalizing them, somehow. Daenerys had spoken of a prize, but the reality was that it didn’t _really_ matter if she failed or succeeded; all that really mattered was that Jon married whom his aunt wanted him to, and she wanted him to marry Princess Arianne Martell.

There it was again, that strange pull in her chest that she experienced more and more often, every time she thought about Jon marrying another. She was casting it aside now, for better prospects. What other option was there?  

“I want to help you, Your Grace, but your disappointment is something I’d rather not like incur, if I should fail to do what you ask of me.”

“I only ask that you try,” she urged. “As long as you try, I’ll never forget that.”

It was as good as a promise as she would ever get; she wasn’t foolish enough to let it slip through her fingers. “Then I will try, Your Grace.”

The queen smiled at her knowingly through the glass. “Thank you,” she said, at the same time when she was finally finished dressing her hair. It was well done, considering her initial grievances about her experience; Sansa looked down at it with a source of pride, even while she couldn’t help but note how strange the design looked on Daenerys.

She wondered how Princess Arianne would look with her hair braided in the same style. Sansa wondered if Jon would like it.

* * *

“She’s found good prey, my lady,” the falconer informed her, bending forward to pick up the game. Sansa smiled proudly at the peregrine perched on her gloved hand before rewarding the bird with a comfit that she had prepared.

It was only recently that she had taken to falconry, but the more she partook the more rewarding it became. Her arm wasn’t as sore as it used to be, not like it had been during her first outings, and she found the jingling of bells attached to the bird’s ankles more comforting than she would have thought. The sport had lost some of its popularity since Daenerys claimed the Iron Throne, but that turned out rather well for her, she learned; the small, forgotten field used for the activity was devoid of people, giving her the peace and solitude that she often longed for.

A voice that wasn’t entirely familiar called her name. Sansa looked away from the bird towards the path, her eyes growing wide as moons as she watched the figures approaching her.

One of the figures was Lady Alysanne Farman, a woman who was pleasant enough to get along with, though Sansa hardly encountered her, save for the occasional run-in through the corridor. Lady Alysanne’s husband was a second son who had an appointment in the royal armory and was quiet where his wife was not, though together they made an imposing image, both being exceptionally tall. Her presence was initially lost on Sansa, until she realized that the man walking arm-in-arm with her was none other than Jon himself, whose dark attire was in stark contrast to the light pink coloring of Lady Alysanne’s gown. Several guards and a few other courtiers trailed behind them, to her further chagrin; her little hideaway had been compromised.

“Lady Stark,” greeted the noblewoman, her face bright with pride, “I had a feeling you would be here, but it took quite a bit of persuading on my part to convince His Grace as well.”  

There wasn’t anything she could say to that, not yet; the only she could muster was a nervous smile at the Lady Alysanne before she ventured a glance at Jon. He, too, said nothing in response, but she wasn’t blind to the peculiar expression on his face as he watched her with that same kind of intensity as her peregrine. It was the first time since his arrival that they were in such close vicinity—it was the first time that Sansa had seen him _this_ close. It was both strange and familiar at the same time, similar to when she had taken up the bells again after what seemed like an eternity, but the speed of her racing heart was a thing of its own.

She smiled at Lady Alysanne nervously before glancing at Jon. He didn’t say anything in response, but she wasn’t blind to the peculiar expression on his face as he watched her just as intently as her peregrine did. Sansa decided to match his silence as she dipped a quick curtsy, though she found that it was a strange ritual to be doing before him. Family members had been exempt from any formal shows of deference at Winterfell, but no such exception existed in the royal capital.

“Wh—what brings you all the way out here, Your Grace?” She stumbled, after dipping into a quick curtsy. The audience that had followed Jon to the fields stood an even farther distance away, but she knew that their eyes and ears were wide open, eager for something good to happen that they could circulate through the halls of the keep. Anything noteworthy would certainly make its way to the queen as well, she remembered warily. _Don’t give them anything to talk about,_ she told herself. _Just don’t._

When Jon held a piece of parchment before her, Sansa knew exactly what it was.

“By the time I received your invitation, you were nowhere in the gardens,” he pointed out, dropping his arm. “I was sorry to have missed you.”

Sansa couldn’t take her eyes off the parchment that he was holding. “It’s understandable, of course,” she murmured, attempting a passive shrug, “seeing as your attentions are extremely hard to come by.” What Jon didn’t know was that it was for this exact reason that she had sent the invitation in the first place—because she didn’t expect that he’d show up. All she had been looking for was a chance to assuage the guilt she was feeling whenever she thought about her last conversation with the dragon queen; Sansa had rationalized that a failed attempt was better than no attempt.  

“I’m here now,” he affirmed. “And I’d like to speak with you. Alone.”

She managed a tight smile at him, but she was all too aware of the fact that Lady Alysanne’s gaze was flitting between them curiously.

“Would you like to see the Dornish monkeys, Your Grace?” She offered, hoping to divert everyone’s attentions elsewhere. “I heard they were installed in the royal menagerie only yesterday, but they’re the strangest creatures anyone’s ever seen, especially in the eyes of a northerner.”

From the poignant flicker in his eyes, Sansa knew that Jon could see right through her tricks. The realization made her nervous; how many more was he aware of?

“The animals can wait,” he responded, his tone as steadfast as his demeanor. When Jon dismissed Lady Alysanne and the small retinue that had trailed behind them, she didn’t try to stop him, though the temptation to do so was heavy. It was actually safer to have eyes around them while they talked; without any, the rumors would surely fly, and there was little chance of tethering them. Sansa wondered, with no small amount of bitterness, which one was going to inform the queen of this; would it be Lady Alysanne herself, or one of the other courtiers in the flock, desperate to make a name for himself in this den of wild creatures?  

Sansa’s gaze fell back on Jon.

“Are you well?” She asked, not knowing what else to say. It came out disinterested and hollow, but there was no helping it; her mind was a rush of thoughts and plans, tossing through all the possibilities that might spring from this private conversation she had failed to avoid. Sansa recalled the only letter she had written to him, since her arrival—that same letter he never responded to. At first she’d been angry about his lackadaisical tendencies, but resignation followed quickly after; she wasn’t sure why she had expected anything different, considering the way he had behaved around her, whenever they had crossed paths at home.  _I know how unforgiving my nephew can be_ , Daenerys had said to her, but Sansa wasn’t entirely sure of that.

Jon watched her steadily with those stormy grey eyes of his. “I’ve been better,” he confessed. His response produced a brief surge of curiosity before she brushed it aside. She was doubtful he’d elaborate, anyway.

“What about Rickon? How is he?”

“He misses you terribly, just like I said he would.”

Her face softened at the mention of her younger brother. “He’ll get over it eventually,” she insisted. “He’s been without a sister before.”

Jon looked unconvinced. “Rickon told me that he’s asked you to come home in every letter he wrote.”

_If I could, I would_ , she thought. “Yes, I know.”

“But you won’t,” he said, turning his head to the side while he stared into the expanse of the field. “Not for a while, at least.”

_You’d like that, wouldn’t you?_ She thought, as she studied the outline of his profile. “I came on the queen’s invitation to spend the remainder of the summer with her,” she reminded him.

“Is that the only reason why you’re here?”

A rustle, followed by the sound of jingling bells, saved her from having to answer; the peregrine was making its way back to her again after she had released it.

“It’s beautiful,” she heard Jon say, as the bird landed gracefully on the edge of her hand.

“ _She’s_ beautiful,” Sansa corrected, while she offered the bird another sugar comfit. “She’s a gift, actually, from the Tyrells. It’s not as unique as those Dornish monkeys that the envoys brought, but I couldn’t be more pleased. Are you aware that they’re going to be made as gifts to you?”

Jon’s face hardened at the information. While it hasn’t been made official as of yet, it was common knowledge that the monkeys were meant for Jon to take back to the north, together with confirmation of his betrothal to Princess Arianne as well.

“The monkeys can stay here,” Jon declared. “I don’t want them.”

“That won’t sit well with the Dornishmen,” she pointed out, stroking the bird’s underbody with one finger. “You need to show them that you’re open to their culture and their practices—and that includes their animals.” She didn’t even have to provide context; they both knew, just like most of the court, that Daenerys was looking to convince Jon into marrying the Dornish princess.

“Ghost will have them in his belly, if they don’t die from the cold first.”

Sansa eyed him disapprovingly. “Ghost will just have to learn to play nice.”

“I don’t want them,” he repeated, his tone petulant. “I don’t need any gifts from the Dornish.”

“What _do_ you need, then?” _What is it that you want?_

Jon didn’t answer immediately. Sansa kept her gaze fixed on the peregrine, noting her sharp, dark eyes, shiny enough that she wondered if it was made out of glass.

“I need to know when you’re coming home, Sansa.”

She refused to take her eyes off the bird before her, but the peregrine’s appearance was the last thing on her mind now. It was with great effort that she stopped herself from asking him what he meant, or what he was trying to _do,_ but she now she was too nervous about his answers. It seemed like forever since her name had come from Jon’s lips, echoing back to a period when they had been so familiar with each other, but the reminder only served to bring their current relations into sharp relief. The walls erected between them were too high now, too impenetrable, so that whatever he meant, Sansa knew that she could no longer heed them.

“Winterfell is in good hands for the time being,” she assured, staring hard at the peregrine’s dotted underbelly. “Maester Tarly sends me daily reports, but so far there isn’t anything that he or my steward hasn’t been able to deal with.”

When Sansa finally opted to glance at him, something wholly unfamiliar flashed across his face for only a moment before it vanished, leaving her no opportunity whatsoever to understand it. Whatever it was, it brought on another wave of panic that signaled to her how dangerous this conversation was becoming.

“It’s time I go back,” she informed, gesturing to the falconer hastily. Sansa was desperate to escape, knowing that they had spoken long enough, but her chance was cut short when Jon’s hand darted out to clutch one of her arms just as she tried to brush past him.

Despite the layer of fabric between them, his fingers were hot enough that she thought they could sear through the flesh of her skin, but all she could do was stare warily at him. It wasn’t a possessive grip, not exactly; despite the strange heat, she couldn’t help but sense that there was a kind of longing in it, until she wondered if perhaps the feeling was entirely hers. It had been so long since she had seen someone from Winterfell— _home_ , she thought, forlornly—that perhaps the longing she was thinking of was just her own, a woman starving for contact with someone of her kin, someone she could trust in this environment that had once been so cruel to her and her family.

“Yes, Your Grace?” She said, glancing down at his hand. The young falconer was within hearing distance from them, and she was already too aware how compromising they looked.

“I know about your inheritance,” he confessed, his voice no louder than a whisper, “and I know that there’s nothing left.” His breath danced across her cheeks like a sweet caress, but the words themselves were more like a slap across her face. It took just about everything she knew to keep her expression passive.

“You made it very clear once that you never wanted to concern yourself with that,” she reminded him sternly, trying to shake off his hold, but it was a meager attempt. “You’re wrong, anyway.”

She said this with as much conviction as she could muster, her head held high, even while she wanted to break down and cry at his words. Her dowry, at least what was once made up of it, had been the key to her hold over the northern lords, but the weight of its contents, the blood and betrayal that was ingrained in it, had been too much for her to bear. It was never hers to keep—she _couldn’t_ , knowing where it had come from. And she hadn’t, in the end.

Jon needn’t know about this. Nobody did, for her sake.

His hold didn’t falter. “I need you to listen to me,” he half-pleaded, half-ordered. “I know that you’re up to something—Dany’s invitation isn’t the only reason why you’re here.”

“That’s none of your business,” she hissed, glaring at him. “Besides, what do you care? Why would you care about anything that I do? You said you’d never forgive me, remember?”

She was expecting some kind of outburst from him, something akin to the one she still remembered from a while ago. Jon did no such thing, in the end; he merely stood where he was, fingers still curled around her arm, but there was a certain kind softness around his eyes that she couldn’t quite contextualize.  

“I’ve learned that there are other things you can do to me that hurt more.”

Sansa continued to glare at him. She hadn’t a clue what he meant by that, but she knew that to care was to invite more trouble in.

“Everything I’m doing is for the sake of my home,” she declared, “for Winterfell and what’s left of my family.”

“But you don’t have to do it alone,” he insisted, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t.”

In another time, the words would have melted her heart. But even the sincerity apparent on his face wasn’t enough to move her anymore; the words still felt hollow to her, empty.

She stared at him warily. “I don’t have anyone but myself, Jon. Not anymore.”

“You ha—”

“Jon,” she cut in, suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue. She didn’t want to do this, not here or anywhere. He’d made his decision long ago, and now they had to live with it, the both of them. “Jon, let go. Please.”

Hurt darted across his features, but he obeyed, dropping his hold on her arm just as suddenly as he had taken hold of it. Sansa pushed right past him as she took the path back towards the Red Keep, keeping her gaze fixed before her, refusing to look back to see whether he was following her or not. Jon was calling her name, but she pushed on anyway, deaf to the voice of reason in her head, telling her to stop for the sake of propriety, that leaving things this way was detrimental to everything she was working towards. Sansa refused to listen.  

_It’s too late_ , she wanted to shout at him from over her shoulder; Sansa wasn’t even sure what she meant by that, and yet the words rang as true as the bright skylight above.

She didn’t know why it came to her, now of all times, but as she returned to the castle all Sansa could remember was that strange conversation she had had with Rickon, one of the last before she had left.

_“Sansa? Why can’t you marry Jon?”_

_“Rickon,” she breathed, brushing his messy hair with her fingers. “The King in the North needs to marry someone of value. Jon needs to make a sensible match with a noble house to secure his title, not one to his cousin. I have nothing to offer, you see.”_

_“Sam says that it’s wiser for a man and a woman to marry for love,” her little brother responded. “He says that they get along better when they’re married if they love one another.”_

_She tried to ignore that dull ache in her chest while she reminded herself to have a conversation with the maester later on. “All the more reason why I shouldn’t marry Jon, then. Because he doesn’t love me.”_

Rickon hadn’t ask her if she loved Jon. She remembered being grateful that he didn’t.

 

* * *

 

 

**AN** : Here it is, folks, cobbled together from a billion drafts (it’s pretty obvious, too!). I’m so sorry that this chapter took ten lifetimes to come out, but it’s all because of your amazing comments and feedback that I decided to keep going. Thanks for reading! 

P.S. I should also point out that I made some things in the hope of getting inspired to write the rest of this story, including a [playlist](http://mon-blanchetts.tumblr.com/post/152474933663/a-playlist-for-set-if-off-because-you-know-you) and a [graphic](http://mon-blanchetts.tumblr.com/post/154910067523/i-hate-to-see-you-cry-your-smile-is-a-beautiful). Check those out if you're interested. =D


	4. Chapter 4

Nothing was going to stop her from getting to her chambers, Sansa decided. She kept her eyes solely in front of her, unmoved by the looks that courtiers and servants threw her way when she passed them. Her ears strained to catch the sound of footsteps behind her; she would run if she had to, appearances be damned. She needed to get as far away from _him_ as she could, and she would do anything to ensure it.

 

Alys was perched on a seat when she arrived, but the handmaiden was on her feet the instant she realized who had entered. 

 

“I’d like to be alone, please,” she announced before the other woman could voice anything. For a moment she feared that Alys would pry deeper; it was a complete relief when she didn’t. Sansa was sure she would have snapped, but she didn’t need to make anymore enemies here.

 

Sansa didn’t wait for the door to close before dropping into a bench closest to her. Hair stuck to the back of her neck; she leaned her head against the stone walls, desperate for some respite from the flames that licked at her insides, spreading across all her limbs. She knew better than to blame the southron heat for her current sufferings, much as she wanted to.

 

Jon had gone mad. That was the simplest way for her to rationalize his behaviour out there, not to mention the only explanation she thought safe to entertain. He had no right to speak of the things he’d brought up, and she desperately wanted to hate him for it. He was out of his mind if he thought he could whisk her back home where they could amend things, not when his aunt and her court were under the assumption that he was ready to offer his hand to another.

 

It could have been so different, she lamented, pressing her eyes shut. There was no relief from the episode Jon had just forced her to endure; his words crowded her mind with such vivid force that he mine as well be present in her room, echoing the same sentiments he’d done earlier. It was all useless, anyway, because she was right: it _was_ too late. Jon may love her still, but his feelings meant nothing in the face of Northern interests.

 

It could have been so different.

 

* * *

 

 

“A pretty voice, yes, but I’m sure many would say he’s got an even prettier face,” Tyrion whispered. “I’m not wrong, am I?”

 

Sansa looked away from the singer in question to spare her neighbour a brief glance. “I suppose it’s a matter of preference, my lord,” she whispered back, leaning towards him so he could hear her better. In truth, she hadn’t been paying attention to their current entertainment; it was a difficult feat, considering the weight of Jon’s gaze. More than once during the feast she’d caught him watching her, but it was even worse when his aunt caught them both. No wonder Daenerys thought she might be colluding with him.

 

The singer had picked a ballad that brought light upon Jenny of Oldstones, crooning yearningly about love in conflict with royal duty before cautioning those willing to listen about the folly of the individual who believed himself above the interests of his family. Fitting enough, Sansa thought, as the performance came to an end; she added her own applause to that ringing through the gilded hall.

 

“He _is_ a handsome man,” she commented, as soon as the noise died down. “But I do like his voice more.”

 

The Hand nodded beside her. “I’m sure he’ll be more than pleased to hear that. You know what men like do in order to sound that way after all these years, don’t you?”

 

She did, and the thought made her blush. When she glanced at her neighbour again, Tyrion was grinning at her.

 

Sansa didn’t know if it was the change of setting or the potency of the wine, but it seemed that everyone was acting out of turn tonight. If this had all been Percy Falker’s intention, he’d right well succeeded, she thought, turning her head to look at their host. The wealthy spice merchant sat at the high table to Daenerys’s right, Jon on her other side. It was an honour of the highest calibre to have not one, but two members of the royal family in his manse, and it was clear he was determined to put his guests in awe. It had been a long time since Sansa had witnessed entertainment on this scale, even though the list of attendees was somewhat minimal. The choicest cuts of meat and the rarest of ingredients had been present, but the best of the best had been offered to the high table only.

 

“How much would you sacrifice for your craft, my lady?”

 

She played with the napkin on her lap. Now that the performance was over, there was no reason to talk softly, but that didn’t seem to matter to the Queen’s Hand. Sansa nearly didn’t hear him amidst the dense noise of other people’s talk and the clang of pewter.

 

“I’ve never been passionate enough about any craft to know,” she answered.

 

Tyrion tilted his head to the side. “But I see you’ve been dabbling in the art of matchmaking, have you not?”

 

“I’ve made no sacrifices for it, my lord,” she said, in a tone she hoped referenced her boredom. A figure approaching their table stopped her from saying more.

 

“A piece of the subtlety, my lady?” offered the page who had been serving Jon the entire evening. He presented a golden platter that held generous pieces of the elaborate confection exclusively made for the occupants at the high table. “His Grace says he wishes to bestow a favour upon you.”

 

“Of course he does,” Tyrion quipped, leaning forward precariously in his seat to grab himself a piece. Sansa stared at the offering; without thinking, she shifted her gaze towards Jon. It didn’t surprise her that he was watching her, those solemn gray eyes boring into her own clear blue ones, silently willing her to accept what he wanted her to have. It was an explicit gesture that none around them missed, least of all Daenerys and her wealthy host. Sansa dropped her gaze as soon as she caught the displeasure on the queen’s face. She’d murder Jon for this, if she could.

 

“Are you going to accept?”

 

Tyrion’s question made her look up again. The page was still standing before their table, a thin sheen of sweat over his youthful face.

 

“Give it to the Septa, please,” she instructed. The page bowed his head quickly before obeying; she stared at his back as he scurried off to the back of the crowded hall. _Don’t look at him,_ she ordered herself, fisting her napkin. _Don’t look at him._

The Hand was sucking the ends of his fingers when he spoke. “The smallfolk will have you to thank when they shit gold tonight.”

 

“That’s not true. They can blame His Grace for that.”

 

Her neighbour chuckled. “And he has so much on his mind already.” When she looked at him, there was a curious glint in his eye that instantly made her nervous.

 

“His Grace has summoned you quite a few times for a private audience, has he not?”

 

Tyrion’s knowledge of that didn’t surprise her, but that wasn’t enough to ease the discomfort in her belly, a nefarious coiling she could not ignore. “Anything Jon wants to me he can say before everyone else.”

 

Her companion quirked a blond eyebrow at her. “Aren’t you worried you’re courting His Grace’s disfavour?”

 

Sansa held back a snort. _Not when he’s already courted mine._ She had vowed that their previous encounter would be the last of that sort, and so far she had made good on her promise. Being alone with Jon was too dangerous, she realized; it was even more so now that she knew how he felt. “His Grace isn’t the kind of man to be offended by such a minor slight as that.”

 

“Well, may that be a good mark on his character,” he said. Light dance on his silver brooch, like magic was bringing the metal hand to life. “His Grace’s spirits, on the other hand, could use some improvement. I do hope a good match will accomplish that.”

 

The corners of her lips curled up. “I said something of a similar vein to him once.”

 

“Did you, now? And what did Jon say to that?”

 

Sansa shrugged. “Nothing. The idea of having Arianne Martell for a bride would probablt render any man speechless, I daresay.”

 

“ _If_ Jon’s bride is to be Arianne Martell,” he corrected, eyes twinkling beneath the flicker of candle lights. “Did you think your letters to the Princess necessary, Sansa?”

 

She watched as Lady Hollanda approached the high table, her deep blue skirts billowing behind her. “I thought it was just another way for me to be of service to Her Grace.” She’d written the first letter that same day Jon had spoken with her, only to follow up with another a few nights later. Each correspondence contained the highest praise for her cousin, the King, most of real than not. It had given her pause to remember why she loved him so much, but what had she expected?

 

“And you would make yourself indispensable to the Princess as well, once she arrives?”

 

Sansa whipped her had around to scrutinize the Hand. “Are you just as worried as Her Grace is about my loyalty?” The words came out sharp, but she could still hear the exasperation muddled in her voice. No doubt Tyrion did as well.

 

He shook his head slowly. “I don’t doubt your loyalty at all, my lady,” he assured, but he was looking away from her while he spoke. She followed his line of sight until her gaze landed on Jon again. Percy Falker’s wife had diverted his attention elsewhere.

 

“No, I don’t doubt your loyalty at all,” Tyrion repeated, softly. “If anything, it’s _him_ I ought to be worried about, not you.”

 

The singer approached their trestle later that night, holding his cap out for any tokens. Sansa dropped in a few coins, but Tyrion offered nothing.

 

“The man’s a paramour to a wealthy nobleman who just happens not to be present,” he explained, shrugging. “It pays to be warming the right person’s bed, you know, a lot more than what we put in his cap.”

 

There was a tingle on her side of her face; despite the familiarity of it, goosebumps still rose along the back of her neck. She lifted her gaze to the high table—sure enough, Jon was staring openly at her now, his long face shrouded with what she could only describe as naked want.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**AN:** There's more to this, but I got to lazy to edit it. You'll just have to wait for the next update to read it (it won't come out next lunar new year, I promise). Thanks for all your support and comments, everyone! It means a _ton_ to me.


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